


So Good

by CricketJames



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketJames/pseuds/CricketJames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An evening in the life. (This piece was previously posted on Tumblr, and I'm bringing it over - so don't get too excited, it's not new!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Good

**Author's Note:**

> This is what we who’ve been around the fanfiction world for a decade or two like to call a PWP - or “Plot? What Plot?” - piece. I first encountered the term in the X-Files fandom, but God help me I’m sure it exists elsewhere.
> 
> There is no plot to this. It’s just gratuitous smut with little (if any) redeeming literary value. Elements were requested from various people on twitter (you know who you are and I’m not going to call you out for your depravity ::insert winky face here::).
> 
> I’m gonna say this REAL LOUD FOR THE PEOPLE IN THE BACK. If you’re offended by RPF smut, don’t click the read more link. Do yourself a favor and just move on. I did not tag this the way I normally would, because frankly I don’t care to have an exploding inbox of “oh my God you have no respect” blah blah blah and the other crap people usually get for writing RPF smut (and not just for this fandom). I’ll say it again, as I’ve said before: I write this stuff as an exercise to get out of my comfort zone. I’m not an erotica writer. I much prefer the cute, schmoopy, romantic bologna that is rife with symbolism and subtext. Or is just cute (see “Scenes from a Relationship”). This is hard for me to write. That’s why I write it. You don’t get better at a skill unless you challenge yourself; so I challenge myself with these pieces.
> 
> If you’ll notice, I didn’t use anyone’s name in this fic, or any truly identifying characteristics. It’s all “he” and “she”, so if you want to sub in a different couple (real or fictional) from the one I wrote it for in my mind - GO FOR IT. I will not stop you, and I actually encourage it. Whatever gets your rocks off, folks. You do you.
> 
> If the (intensely long) preamble hasn’t scared you off, read on MacDuff - just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

* * *

 

In the past it has happened due to one of three circumstances: one (or both) of them get drunk, one (or both) of them get lonely, or a combination of the aforementioned two. This time, it’s the combination that has lead him to have her pressed against the wall outside of her apartment door, rucking her thin shirt up with both hands to press his palms against the heat of her ribcage.

He really had tried to be the gentleman, truly. But a night of her sneaking glances at him from the corner of her eye, smirking at him over the rim of her wine glass, and brushing her entire front against his entire back on her way to the bathroom and upon her return, had him grasping at the remaining straws of his sanity and self control.

She’s cute when she’s drunk.

She’s also irresistible - and insatiable – and he likes it.

Her hands are fisted in his hair, alternating between tugging and smoothing against his scalp as her mouth devours his. She gives a sharp tug, pulling his lips from hers and angling his head back causing a startled intake of breath on his part.

Her teeth scrape down his jaw, rasping against his stubble. She pauses momentarily on her trek down his carotid to run the flat of her tongue across his Adam’s apple before closing her teeth on the ridge of his neck and slowly meandering her way back up to his lips.

His hands had stilled on her hips pulling her flush against him, but now find their way to her cheeks, cupping so his thumbs trace her cheekbones before moving to smooth her hair back from her face. Wayward curls, of both her own and perm-induced variety, had fluffed out around her face, and while he loved the wild dandelion look he wanted to see her face unencumbered before diving back into the warm wet that is her mouth.

His rational mind knows he needs to get them inside her apartment, somehow, someway, even if it means using his body as a battering ram and breaking the fucking door down himself so she doesn’t have to untangle her hands from his hair again to fish out her keys.

In a moment that can only be described as kind of mind-meld, she pulls back, resting then gently rubbing her forehead against his as her breath stutters against his lips.

“Keys,” she breathes, releasing his hair with one hand to grope at her purse ineffectively. She’s blindly digging, fumbling with straps and zippers in such a drunken, adorable mess of a manner that in a lesser state he would probably find it cute. He might possibly even find it amusing if he weren’t so hard and wasn’t trying to control his caveman like tendencies with every ounce of his being lest he throw her against the door and take her then and there.

His hands are roaming her torso, slip sliding up inside her jacket to count her ribs, trace the edge of her clavicle, and cup the soft swell of a breast through the satin of her bra.

“You so aren’t helping,” she says, planting her other hand on his chest and shoving him back a step so she can focus on the task at hand. She retrieves the key ring from the depths of her purse and holds it up with a beatific smile, “Keys!”

He leans forward and nips at her upturned lips, letting a low growl slip through before pinning her against the door with his hips. Again.

“How about you get us inside before the neighbors come out to investigate and really have something to complain about to the management,” he asks, voice low with his mouth near her ear. She pants before chuckling that low, throaty chuckle that only emerges when she’s drunk or so turned on she can’t see straight.

“We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” she breathes before turning to face the door and, for a woman who is at least four drinks gone, deftly unlocks the door.

* * *

 

He runs his tongue from just below her navel to her breastbone, delighting in the shudder that visibly courses through her as he scrapes his teeth along the slope of one breast before making a circuitous lap around her nipple, feeling its hardness brush across his cheek as he purposefully avoids it.

The logistics of how they got from the hallway, fully clothed, to her bedroom almost completely naked are lost to the weird time vortex that seems to occur when all involved parties focused on other, more arousing, topics – like her hand down the front of his underwear.

He places open mouthed kisses back down her torso, pausing occasionally to nip here and there making her jump and arch against him and, sadly, pull her hand from where it had been deliciously stroking him root to tip to fist in his hair.

He pauses, pulling back and she all but bends in half to try to bring his mouth back to her. She pulls against his hands that anchor her hips to the bed and he smiles, forehead against her thigh.

“I’m going to kill you,” she breathes, giving the short, baby soft hairs at the nape of his neck a sharp tug before running her hands around to his cheeks so her thumbs can trace his eyebrows.

He quirks a shit-eating grin in her direction before pressing an open mouthed kiss to his favorite freckle on her inner thigh and she drops his face and her head against the pillow simultaneously.

“Ok. Maybe I wont.”

If he could choose the way to exit this mortal coil, it would be one of two ways – with his face between her thighs or buried to the hilt while she pants beneath him. Or possibly at the age of 102 laying next to her surrounded by their children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and so on, but that’s to sappy and ridiculous to think about when he’s a hairsbreadth away from quim so he shoves it to the back of his brain and focuses his mind on the task at hand.

He loves the sounds she makes, the way she whimpers and tilts her hips up to bring herself back to his mouth when he stops. There’s always a moment where her breathing gets heavy and he can feel her start to reach for his head to hold him tighter against her. Without fail, he always manages to catch her wrist and pin it back to the bed, casting his opposite forearm over her hips to hold her in place.

She’s close when her legs start to shake. He knows the split second before she reaches that point, the muscle tension in her thighs gives away and the small tremors start. He chances a glance upward, tongue still skating circles of varying size and direction around her clit and watches her face. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth, cheeks flushed as she pushes back against the pillow, back arching, hands twisted in the bedclothes and breath coming out in small pants through her nose. He smiles and chuckles against her which seemingly causes a chain reaction and her hands fly from the bedclothes to wrap in his hair, thighs pushing with unnatural strength against his grip and closing around his ears as she breaks apart at the seams.

She’s still panting as he lazily presses kisses against her, gentling her back to Earth, stroking her from hip to knee with one hand as her breathing regulates. He presses a final kiss to the juncture where her hip meets her thigh and divests himself of the rest of his clothing before sliding back up her body. His fingers flirt with her thighs, brush slightly against her clit and dip ever so briefly inside as his tongue makes its way up her clavicle. She bats against his hand, pushing it away and pulling her legs around his hips.

“Fuck,” she breathes as he’s nose to nose with her. He laughs, really laughs, and presses a kiss to the tip of her nose before sliding to her right and tugging her so she’s prone atop him. Her thighs fall open to either side of his hips, as she still struggles to regulate her breathing.

“I need a second,” she says, face buried in his neck and hands flung out to both sides. He laughs, again. He laughs in bed with her more than he ever has with anyone else, and the laughter makes it so much better. His hands smooth down her shoulder blades and trace over the bumps of her vertebrae, following the path he’s all but memorized in the past few months.

* * *

 

She takes another few minutes, just breathing against his neck, coming back down to Earth and letting the orgasm fog clear from her brain before she begins to chase the next one. Because there will be a next one. There always is. The score between them is never even, she’s ahead of him by double digits and he doesn’t seem to care. There’s something unnatural about that – she’s brought it up before and he’s brushed it off, but one day she’ll get the score closer to even.

But it will not be tonight.

Be it the alcohol, the fact that they’re now more comfortable in this aspect of their relationship, or just how good they are together she’s not entirely sure, but something has made her bold tonight. She pulses her hips against his, sliding against his length as she sucks lightly at his neck. His hands go to her hips and his fingers tighten around her. She traces the contour of the side of her neck with her tongue before letting it rasp against the stubble long his jaw and diving back into his mouth. Even if the sex had sucked, he was a good enough kisser for her to overlook it. But, the sex didn’t suck so the fact that he was an excellent kisser cemented the fact that there was likely no one else who would come close – even if she had been looking. She shoves that slightly maudlin, definitely too heavy for this moment, thought aside – she’ll come back to that later.

Their lips separate with a smack and they breathe into each other momentarily. Her hips have held a steady slide against him, increasing the forward slide ever so slightly every few passes so he bumps against her clit, which sends shivers coursing through her.

He opens his mouth to speak but she beats him to the punch, pushing herself up and sliding one hand between them to guide him inside. She sinks down, relishing the feeling of being filled completely and rests her hands against his chest momentarily, fingers gripping his pectorals as his fingers tighten against her hips.

“So good,” she breathes, as he tries in vain to get her to move. She uses her hands as an anchor and presses against him, stilling his attempts.

“I swear to God if you say you need another minute I’m leaving,” he groans, eyes slammed shut and head pressed back against the pillow. She laughs, causing them both to groan as the act causes him to shift inside her slightly. Her press against his chest eases and he loosens his grip on her hips, allowing her to set a slow, languid pace that belies their drunken state. Usually drunk sex is frantic, messy, and over relatively quickly. This is different. He doesn’t move to speed her up as she leans back to put her hands on his knees as leverage, gasping at the angle change. His hands drift up to cup her breasts, alternatively kneading them fully and focusing his attention on her nipples.

It’s so good.

She’s surprised when he sits up, bringing his knees up so she fully rests against them and snaring her lips in a searing kiss.

“Can I drive?” he pants into her mouth as he drives solidly into her, using the bed as leverage. His thrusts are small, but deep, the bed too soft to get any real purchase in this position. She nips at his chin and casts him a wicked grin before sliding off his lap and taking up residence flat on her stomach on the bed.

“Only if I get to decide how.”

* * *

 

He can feel his own mouth drop open as she blinks at him over her shoulder and grinning at him like the cat that’s eaten the canary. He slides over her, pressing her into the mattress before nipping at the nape of her neck.

“This is going to be over so fast,” he moans into the crease of her shoulder as he lifts his body away from hers to tug at her hips.

He blinks in confusion as she shakes her head and presses her hips against the bed.

“I thought you…” he starts, running his hand back around to stroke the small of her back, making a lazy circuit from one ass cheek to the small of her back and then over to the other.

“I do,” she says simply, not making a move to lift her hips or prop herself on her elbows. She reaches back to tug at one of his thighs, forcing him to move so he’s straddling her hips. It’s only then that comprehension dawns.

“Ohhh…” he says, eliciting a snicker from her – face buried in the down of the comforter. His hands cease their pattern on her backside to dip between her thighs as he sits back on his haunches, her legs trapped between his. She intakes a sharp breath as he circles her clit with two fingers once, twice, and then sinks them inside, groaning at how wet she still is.

She arches against the bed, driving herself back against him as she pants a plea. She’s no longer making sense, her sentences starting out in plain English and devolving into long, fluid syllables consisting mostly of vowels.

It takes a little maneuvering on his part, but when he finally sinks home he’s sending out mental praises and thanks to God, Allah, Zeus, Thor, and any other deity he can possibly think of. She’s so tight and this is going to be so fast for him he’s almost embarrassed.

He carefully collapses his upper body closer to her, panting in her ear and uttering God knows what. He’s lost control and sight of anything other than the point of their joining and he’ll die a happy man if the almighty chooses to take him now.

Her hand snakes underneath her and he feels the brush of her fingers against him as she strokes him with a feather-light touch on his backstroke before moving to touch herself.

She clenches around him and he’s barely able to give her a warning before he’s spilling into her, hips stammering out a staccato rhythm against her hips before he presses her so fully into the mattress that if her head hadn’t been turned she would surely suffocate. He rests his forehead against her shoulder, breathing harshly as he comes back to himself. It takes longer than usual for him to regain enough of his mental faculties to realize he’s likely crushing her and move to the side.

He flops, ungracefully, onto the bed next to her and reaches out to tug her in so she’s spooned against his side, one leg thrown over his. She peppers kisses along his shoulder, one hand tracing patterns through his chest hair as stated sleepiness blankets both of them.

He uses one hand to smooth over the crown of her head, pressing a kiss to her wild hair, “We may be too good at this.”

He can feel her smile against him before she replies through a jaw cracking yawn, “No such thing.”


End file.
